Really, I want to write. I think. Maybe. Someday.
In actuality, I clean and organize and edit and manage and coach and fold and sort and complete forms and ignore awkward phone calls with health savings accounts personel and make appointments for well-child checks and beat my head trying to figure out local/organic/sustainable/affordable and beat myself up that the house isn’t in perfect form and the kids don’t have all the extra curricular homework done and the food contains all-purpose flour and processed sugars and mitotoxins.
It’s exhausing, and really, I’m tired of carrying this load.
So what should reality look like? What does it mean to be Aj Schwanz? Perhaps I’ll have the gaul, with these 34ish years of living, to find out.
Lord help us all.